


Jack in a Box

by threewalls



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Cardboard Box, Community: bloodyvalentine, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Gen, Military Training, Omorashi, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unrequited Crush, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long can Jack sit under a box?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack in a Box

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much based on MGS3 only, and I have to confess I only got into that through Hiimdaisy's "Let's Destroy the Shagohad" comic. (This is an *old* WIP.) 
> 
> For "urine/watersports" for Bloody Bingo and "endurance" for kink bingo.

"What do you see?" she asks Jack as soon as they enter the room.

No furniture. One hanging bulb overhead. There are dark stains on the sealed concrete floor and walls, but he doesn't think that's she meant. 

"A cardboard box."

No smile, but he gets a nod. Jack is only eighteen and even after three years, he still can't believe The Boss is interested in his training. He's just relieved that after three years, her nod no longer leaves him with a tent-pole pushing up under his khaki trousers. 

"One standard construction cardboard packing box," she confirms. "Just large enough for a man. Light-weight. Easily portable. More useful in contexts like factories and other internal terrain where greater numbers of other boxes provide plausible cover. 

"This box will be your new best friend," she tells him.

"What are my objectives?" Jack asks.

"Get under there," she says. "Keep quiet. Observe. Await further instructions."

He drops to a crouch to lift up the edge of the box and ducks underneath.

\---

His eyes adjust easily to the semi-darkness inside the cardboard. Light creeps in under the rough edges of the box. Not much, but enough to hold the shapes of his bent knees, his arms in front of him.

He ekes out his canteen as long as he can, small sips, but eventually even the full 950cc is gone, and he has nothing left to measure out the time.

His muscles ache from inactivity and the tension of hyper vigilance, but that's a familiar friend. He is in the moment. He is a soldier. He knows his objective.

His sense of smell is shot, has been as long as he can remember, and there's nothing to see but the shadowy shapes of his own limbs, but Jack can listen. He can hear his own breathing. 

He can't hear her. 

No breathing. 

No footfall. 

No sounds. 

But he hasn't heard the door open or shut. He crouches, breathing and listening. Jack thinks he can feel the strength of her piercing blue gaze on him like bullets through the cardboard.

\---

His bladder burns. 

Jack knows the pain of knife slicing through muscle or a bullet chipping bone. This is more like the dull ache of healing bruises.

He breaths deep, measured. Draws his attention back to his breath. To what he can hear beyond his own damp respiration. 

But his bladder pulls his attention in. Again and again and again. The world is only inside the box.

It's not pain like a broken leg. It's just his bladder, and it's all there is.

He thinks about calling out. He thinks about standing. He thinks about her, motionless and poised, somewhere outside the box, watching him, and he can't lift his shoulders an inch.

He also can't wait.

Anything that distracts or disorients will get you killed, sooner or later, and emptying his bladder is all he can think about.

A plan gives him better concentration. Shifting his cramping muscles slow, slow, through minute movements to proceed without shaking the light cardboard box covering him.

Step 1: Open his empty canteen. Step 2: Wedge canteen between thighs. Step 3: Open fly.

Jack bites into his lip, breathing through the sides of his mouth. The aluminium's cold. The narrow neck won't fit the head of his dick. 

And pissing into his own canteen feels so damn good that Jack has to stop breathing to cut his groan. Feels so good he's stiff in three seconds, like he can't decide whether to piss his canteen or fuck it. Too hard to piss when he needs to so bad. 

His guts cramp and his eyes burn. He's listening but he can't hear her.

Jack fists his dick, rough, quick strokes. He shoots off into his canteen, but pissing a strong stream after is a higher grade of bliss.

The moment he's fastened his trousers, the Boss lifts up the box. The light dazzles Jack's eyes, blurring her shape. He tenses for her attack.

"The exercise is over."

Her words bleed the tension from his spine. Jack stands up.

"You lasted longer than I expected," she tells him. She nods at the canteen Jack is still holding, the mix of urine and semen weighting it in his hand. "Points for creative thinking."

"I--" he begins, but doesn't know what to say.

"This isn't finishing school. Dehydration can kill you, wet clothes are a health risk and the scent of strong urine can alert downwind enemy to your position," she says. "Given the constraints, not bad, Jack."

The Boss pulls out a cigar from a uniform pocket, lighting the end. Her cigars are so strong that even Jack can smell them. Does that mean that she-- oh shit.

Jack makes himself meet her eyes. She smirks around her cigar.

"But you heard me." 

"Then lucky for you I'm not your enemy today," The Boss says, and slaps Jack on the shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also comment/subscribe at [my LJ](http://threewalls.livejournal.com/372997.html) or [my DW](http://threewalls.dreamwidth.org/250228.html).


End file.
